


very sturdy rogues

by MariposaenArullo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bloodplay, Breathplay, Fights, Frottage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:11:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MariposaenArullo/pseuds/MariposaenArullo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Vantas steps into the ring he's shirtless, rich brown skin already shiny with sweat; maybe he's been working out already before deciding to join you.  His fists are bare, like yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	very sturdy rogues

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers! I don't know a damn thing about boxing or fighting. Mind the tags for lamely written violence...

You're wearing a dirty old wife-beater, a pair of loose black gym shorts, when you step into the ring. The mat sinks invitingly beneath your feet, which are bare, like your hands and face. None of that protective crap for you; it's wussy and it slows you down, besides. You're lean all over, wiry, lithe muscles. Skin just a couple shades darker than your white blond hair. 

You never wear your shades when you box.

When Vantas steps into the ring he's shirtless, rich brown skin already shiny with sweat; maybe he's been working out already before deciding to join you. His fists are bare, like yours. He's also way more fucking built than you are, biceps almost as thick as a baby sapling, six pack lines proudly defined. You should be angry, jealous, something. You look at him.

He grimaces back, greets you with a cursory, "Fucktwat," runs a hand through his mane of black locks. 

"Asshole," you return amiably; not your best, but you're distracted by the path of destruction his hand leaves in its wake, hair sticking up unapologetically. You dance a little on your toes, reminding him of the fact that you're ten times quicker on your feet than him, and you've got some lightning fast fists as well. Vantas has got a lot more fucking power, though; strength and force in those porno muscles. Oh, and he's an inch and a half shorter than you. In case anyone had forgotten.

He scowls even deeper than before, if that's even possible. "We going to start or what?"

You answer him with a patent Strider smirk you know he _just_ can't stand, and bring your fists up to the proper position. Always a good idea to get the fucker frustrated before the action gets going, and Vantas already looks fucking livid. Idiot falls for it every time. 

Your forethought pays off when your knuckles connect with the right side of his jaw, hard. Vantas just shakes it off, like a dog sprayed with water, grits his teeth.

First hit. Strider 1, Vantas 0. 

So, okay, maybe you get a little cocky after that. You're grinning openly now, dancing around his jabs like a fucking ballerina. Vantas has got sweat dripping down his neck, getting stuck in his collarbones. Maybe that's what gets you so distracted.

He lands a punch straight on your left eye, and _fuck_ , but that hurts. Gonna leave a nice big mark, too, for everyone to see. You wonder if he wanted that. 

Fight gets sloppy after that, score all tied up like it's a fucking prisoner of war. You give Vantas a kick to the shin, to change things up; you're not sure if it counts as cheating but you end up giving him a nasty fucking limp that makes it even harder for him to keep up with you.

Wounded Vantas, however, is a dangerous little shit, you learn. You're slow to protect your face for barely a fraction of a second and he's there, fist landing squarely on your nose this time. You blink it away, not broken, not a problem, and you don't even notice the blood till it's dripping off your chin.

You let out a laugh, take a moment to wipe the blood off your face, smear the redness onto your shorts. You swipe your tongue up to catch the rest. Tastes normal, like warm rain and old pennies. You wonder whether everybody's blood tastes the same. You wonder if _his_ would.

And goddamn, you wanna make that boy _bleed._

When you finally get your cranium back into the fucking game he's staring at you, not like he's fucking concerned, hell no (you'd hate that anyway), no, Vantas just looks - fascinated. And somehow that gets your blood boiling, heat seeping under your skin better than any remorse would've done.

And then you take another look at him and realize that while he's got you with the beginnings of a shiner and a face like a fucking starving cannibal, all you've managed to give him is a little gimpy walk and a sore jaw. Not o- _fucking_ -kay.

You wait for it and then your fist connects solidly with his mouth. Skin splits and it's the fucking prettiest sight you've ever seen, a trickle of blood going down the corner of his lips like the dumbfuck's a freaking vampire. You aren't saying you don't like the flash of pain in his eyes either, that it doesn't go straight to your ego, before he can clamp down on the reaction. 

Vantas looks bloody fucking gorgeous like that, roughed up a bit, blood and sweat, the whole shebang. You think about telling him that, ironically, just to see what he'd say to you. What he'd do.

Then he's suddenly done recovering, so suddenly you don't realize until he's got you in a fucking headlock, arm wrapped around your neck so tight you're seeing goddamn stars, smelling the sweat dripping off 'em like rain. Vantas has got one thick forearm pressing insistently against your windpipe, making your head feel like a fucking birthday balloon. He's also got your whole body crushed against his in one hot, firm line, like someone just paused the TV in the middle of an especially raunchy grind session. You think about making a joke, something coy, infuriating - But, Karkat, darling, we just _met_ \- except now you're fucking choking, and -

You let your entire body go limp. It takes a second, but soon the pressure on your throat lets up just the tiniest fraction so you can get back to full color vision and normal mental capacity. And then you sink your teeth into his arm.

You barely even break the skin but he howls like a fucking baby and drops you like a hot potato. Well, maybe you deserve it. You can taste, you think (hope), the tiniest bit of blood on your tongue, and you're really not sure but you think he tastes just a little different: saltier, sharper, _something._

Or maybe you're just crazy. Definitely keeping those thoughts to yourself.

You take advantage of Vantas' slightly incapacitated state and go for the backs off his knees, somehow get him onto his back and geez, if you had known he woulda gotten all hot and bothered by the biting you would've done it a long time ago. You sit yourself down smugly on his abdomen, his wrists held in your hands in the middle of his chest. It's not a move strictly from the book, that's for sure, but for now you're just content to look down and admire the wily fucker you just soundly beat.

It's _just_ at that moment when you both realize you're hard.

Vantas gets this horrified, just fucking _disgusted_ look on his face, and that’d be pretty hilarious to you if it was only him in the town of fucking Bonerville. He loses his cool damn fast, though, blushing like a sixteen year old virgin, growling and writhing, trying to get you off of his stomach. You ride him like a cowboy, ‘cause you fucking can, and you feel a hot trickle of shame and a little bit of _the fuck, Dave?_ slide down the back of your tank top. Or maybe that’s just sweat. Either way, you know your ass is rubbing down in just the right way on Vantas’ dick, and now you’re wondering if those noisy groans aren’t just from trying to heave you off. 

You know you can’t hold him down forever - you ain’t superman, and the guy’s got ridiculous fucking muscles - so you’re not surprised when he finally shoves you away. You roll to the left, adrenaline still pumping, wondering whether you can get some mileage outta the situation with Egbert. It _is_ sort of fucking funny when you think about it.

What you aren’t expecting is for there to be, barely a second later, a very flushed and sweaty Karkat Vantas pinning your wrists above your head, settling himself flush along your body. And - _ah_ \- you twist a tiny bit and have to bite off a gasp, because now you’re both aligned in a way that makes it very, very easy to fucking tell you’re standing at attention. 

Vantas breathes into your neck, heavy and warm. You think you can feel his heartbeat going away above your chest. Could be yours. You aren’t going anywhere any goddamn time soon; Vantas is at least twenty pounds heavier than you, and his hot, hard weight is a pretty great fucking reminder of that. He’s got you beat now, the sonufabitch; probably wants to let it sink in, wants to savor the feeling. Well. You guess you deserve that. 

When he doesn’t get up after a long moment, you’re a little confused but like hell are you gonna show it. You move at first really just to test him. You lift your hips the teeniest bit, try to get some friction, feeling, anything. It feels - well, it feels fucking _weird_ , if you’re being honest, ‘cause there’s no way to even for a split-second mistake Vantas for a girl. No, he’s got a dick. And yeah, maybe that dick feels - _nngh_ , yes, _good_ grinding down against your own. Vantas is getting into it now. He’s making sounds that the girls in Egbert’s weird porn stash videos would be fucking envious of, a shit ton of grunts and snarls and even some sharp, bitten off _whines_ that make your mind go blank for an embarrassingly long time and your hips move faster of their own accord, more desperate. You’re not even sure why it’s doing this to you; you’ve never really been turned on by the loud chicks, even on TV. 

Somehow it sounds way fucking hotter when it’s happening in real life. 

You’re actually really fucking embarrassed by the fact that there’s an actual chance you might go off in your pants. From a little boarding school, locker room grinding. It’s fucking terrible, _unspeakable;_ Striders just _don’t_ come in their pants. You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Uh-oh.

You try to cover it up by being a right little shit.

“Noisy fucker, aren’t you?” you breathe into his neck, and _fuck,_ that sounds a little too much like actual dirty talk to be a good idea at this particular moment. It does the trick, though, because Vantas fucking growls and brings one hand down from where it's securing your wrists and places a broad, rough palm over your face, forcing your head sideways. 

_Fuck fuck fuck_ , and that’s - that shouldn’t be hot. Now he’s getting rougher with you, faster and more aggressive, sort of like - like an animal, you realize slowly. Like a fucking _animal_ rutting into some hard surface because it just wants to _get off._ He’s got a hand over your face and you’re pretty much powerless, you’re fucking rock hard and shaking, letting him shove his hips into you, and Jesus Christ _what has this bastard done to you._

You think about biting down in retaliation on the calloused thumb covering your lips. But instead you just try to buck up against him, hard, which sort of has the opposite effect than you intended, because he makes this noise that sounds like it comes right from his gut and bites _you_ instead, where your neck meets your shoulder. It fucking _burns._

Turns out you’ve got a problem down south with the whole teeth thing, too. And then you’re going off like some hick town’s Fourth of July festival, and everything goes absolutely fucking red as you are sorely and utterly humiliated. 

All Vantas does to acknowledge your happy ending is this weird kind of all-body shudder, like he can’t really hold his weight above you for much longer. He thrusts a few more times against you and _fuck, _it _hurts,___ you’re still sensitive and there’re aftershocks running all along your extremities.

He finishes with a throaty, full-belly groan that does absolutely nothing to your goddamn traitorous lower body. The hand on your head slackens a bit, and then he falls off you to your left side. 

You hate how it actually feels weird to have full control of your body again, how your face feels raw and hypersensitive. You focus on your breathing, because you know how to fucking do that, and you’re not thinking about the giant pile of shit lying next to you. You’re really not sure what to think of the whole fucking mess at all, except for the old, familiar anger that sparks somewhere inside you whenever you think about _him._

It’s just like a fight, you decide eventually, after you have determinedly not looked at the mouth-breathing cunt as he walks away. It’s a fight that you might’ve admittedly lost, but you know how to - how to deal with that.

You really have no idea how to deal with the fact that later, in the shower, when you run your hands over your dick all you can think of is the way he’d push you down onto the tiles, make you close your eyes against the spray of water as he fucked your mouth raw, the taste salty and unforgiving. 

_Fuck._


End file.
